Monologue of Slaine,

I do admit I want to kill everything.

Not just a few select people who seem to irritate me to a high degree, but the entire human civilization as a whole. I want to rip it all to shreds. I want to see the steaming scarlet flood intoxicate the very world around me, drowning every living pestilent being within it's tame, yet so vile, ambrosia.

I want to make every single decrepit syllable in that fucking name of yours a foul word. I want to rip every ounce of savoury flesh from your festering meatsack of a husk. I want to make the whole world see what it is that you really are. A monster, cruel yet kind. A beast much like me in every single fucking way I can think of.

You were perfect, much too perfect, understandable that no ounce of humanity remained within that walking corpse of yours. But, heh, as I've said before, you are just like me.

A mirror image of innocence and lust. A thousand rising suns could never match the light with which your smile reveals. Every bloody wonder on this goddamned world pales miserably in comparison to the visage you instill upon the forefronts of my minds. Such a sweetened fucking angel sewn together by fate. To meet one such young man and cast stars upon his eyes, tempting him eagerly into your waiting arms, unknowingly falling into a lapse of unconscious sanity.

Perfect.... much too perfect...

I'm left here in the wake of the rapture that stole my heart from me. Leaving me to wander alone this grey world yonder with the tattered wings of hate and nonchalant laughter adorning my curved spine. Every little tiny thing I see I think of you. And the countless million ways I dream of cracking your damned skull upon the jagged stones I wish to scream into your fucking ear.

So much left unsaid... So much left unheard...

Tis now the time I protest honeybee, that I must break to be set free. For within your lap of luxury, I fell too far to even see.

It was by my own dominance, my will to be a martyr, that I broke through your decrepit lies and sought escape in the twisted fabrics of truths. Such rotted, fucking truths. My rage my only ally, your memory my enemy.

Heh, much like you'd fucking care, you're probably curled up within the comfort of a warm and nestled bed, basking in the glow of your ill gotten gains, cooing sweet nothings to a man who'll soon be as I am.

Nothing.

You told me not to become the villain, yet created the weave yourself. And now I'm just playing the part you made for me, because it makes me fucking smirk.

For so long I thought me the hero. For so long I was fucking wrong. But I must admit, with time to think,

Violence is what I am.